CHAPTER XIV

Mr. Fentolin, on leaving the dining-room, steered
his chair with great precision through the open, wrought-iron
doors of a small lift at the further end of the hall,
which Doctor Sarson, who stepped in with him, promptly
directed to the second floor. Here they made
their way to the room in which Mr. Dunster was lying.
Doctor Sarson opened the door and looked in.
Almost immediately he stood at one side, out of sight
of Mr. Dunster, and nodded to Mr. Fentolin.

“If there is any trouble,” he whispered,
“send for me. I am better away, for the
present. My presence only excites him.”

Mr. Fentolin nodded.

“You are right,” he said. “Go
down into the dining-room. I am not sure about
that fellow Hamel, and Gerald is in a queer temper.
Stay with them. See that they are not alone.”

The doctor silently withdrew, and Mr. Fentolin promptly
glided past him into the room. Mr. John P. Dunster,
in his night clothes, was sitting on the side of the
bed. Standing within a few feet of him, watching
him all the time with the subtle intentness of a cat
watching a mouse, stood Meekins. Mr. Dunster’s
head was still bound, although the bandage had slipped
a little, apparently in some struggle. His face
was chalklike, and he was breathing quickly.

“A prisoner,” he repeated softly.
“My dear Mr. Dunster, you have surely forgotten
the circumstances which procured for me the pleasure
of this visit; the condition in which you arrived here—­only,
after all, a very few hours ago?”

“The circumstances,” Mr. Dunster declared
drily, “are to me still inexplicable.
At Liverpool Street Station I was accosted by a young
man who informed me that his name was Gerald Fentolin,
and that he was on his way to The Hague to play in
a golf tournament. His story seemed entirely
probable, and I permitted him a seat in the special
train I had chartered for Harwich. There was
an accident and I received this blow to my head—­only
a trifling affair, after all. I come to my senses
to find myself here. I do not know exactly what
part of the world you call this, but from the fact
that I can see the sea from my window, it must be
some considerable distance from the scene of the accident.
I find that my dressing-case has been opened, my
pocket-book examined, and I am apparently a prisoner.
I ask you, Mr. Fentolin, for an explanation.”